everybody else in the house is liable to be disturbed if we get up. So,
of course, we mustn't."

The tone is that of gentle resignation. It is instinct with the spirit
of virtuous pride, arising from the consciousness of self-sacrifice.

"Don't you call this being up?" you suggest.

"Oh, no; we're not really up, you know, because we're not properly
dressed." The fact is self-evident. "Pa's always very tired in the
morning," the voice continues; "of course, that's because he works hard
all day. Are you ever tired in the morning?"

At this point he turns and notices, for the first time, that the three
other children have also entered, and are sitting in a semi-circle on the
floor. From their attitude it is clear they have mistaken the whole
thing for one of the slower forms of entertainment, some comic lecture or
conjuring exhibition, and are waiting patiently for you to get out of bed
and do something. It shocks him, the idea of their being in the guest's
bedchamber. He peremptorily orders them out. They do not answer him,
they do not argue; in dead silence, and with one accord they fall upon
him. All you can see from the bed is a confused tangle of waving arms
and legs, suggestive of an intoxicated octopus trying to find bottom. Not
a word is spoken; that seems to be the etiquette of the thing. If you
are sleeping in your pyjamas, you spring from the bed, and only add to
the confusion; if you are wearing a less showy garment, you stop where
you are and shout commands, which are utterly unheeded. The simplest
plan is to leave it to the eldest boy. He does get them out after a
while, and closes the door upon them. It re-opens immediately, and one,
generally Muriel, is shot back into the room. She enters as from a